Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seekers are really not built for running. Starscream’s vents wheeze, overtaxed, and his vocalizer spits static whimpers every time his knees crunch under his own weight. The only thing that makes it bearable is Sunstorm’s servo in his.

The air is split by screams, bombs, and blasterfire. It’s painfully obvious that the glitchy simulations the Minders religiously put them through did next to nothing to prepare them for real war.

Life was anything but good under the council, Starscream knows that, he’s not stupid, but it was survivable, if they kept their helms down and did what they were told and prayed for peacetimes. He curses the Decepticons for causing this mess, for stirring up all the trouble that lead to this . (Starscream can barely see through the smoke. The smell of death wafts over the endless battlefield. His optics are spritzing washer fluid nonstop, which dribbles down his faceplate rather grossly, but it’s still not enough to clear the ash that repeatedly blows into them. It stings .) He directs a special, sparkfelt ‘frag you’ Dreadwing and Slipstream’s way. Unmaker knows he hated the Minders, but it was so, so stupid to endanger the entire crèche by attacking them, all for the chance to join some shiny, doomed revolution. He of all mechs knows how much worse things could get, for every one of them, if their hareproccessored assassination plot had gone wrong. If only one had been left alive. And pledging all of them as Decepticons to the first revolutionary who stumbled into their path who would listen? Stupid, selfish, callous . Those two had no right , deciding for the whole crèche. They were subimagos .

That’s why Starscream and Sunstorm are running like grounders through a literal warzone , in a convoluted, stupid way. Because if Sunstorm had never had to comm him when the rest of the crèche, the rest of the makeshift camp they’d been shepherded into by warframes who’d never once interacted with a subimago in their entire functioning, was resting in uneasy recharge, if the twins had never had to take off before they could be missed, they would not be looking for the moronic copter who had the absolute gall to wander off on some stolid whim after the pair agreed to let him travel with them. In a warzone . Malfunctioning glitch. And it’s not like Sunstorm would ever agree to give up the search until they confirmed his status, one way or another. Shame.

::see any traces of Whirl:: Sunstorm comms—split spark comms, very useful. Except for when his twin was upset and in a lecturing mood.

::no:: he responds. Print comms are flat, of course, but Sunstorm knows him well enough to guess the tone. The glitch had a remarkable field, though, and not in a good way, so he’d be hard to miss if the two passed near him. If he wasn’t stupid enough to try flying, he couldn’t have gotten far. He couldn’t have gotten far flying either, actually, not with rotors shot full of holes.

They do feel Whirl’s field before they see him. It’s chaotic, sharp, and mildly bloodthirsty. ::unmaker that mech is fragged up:: Sunstorm remarks. Which, yeah, fair assessment. A little understated, maybe. Because there is something undeniably misfiring in the Seeker’s head at all times, Starscream drops his servo from his twin’s, sprints faster with some previously untapped energy reserve, which is perhaps spite, and vaults over the crumbling wall between the jets and the source of the maelstrom with grace that defies his lanky frame. (He will be a sight when he gets his imago update, and has definitely let it go to his helm.) (Also, he takes a still of the wall on the way over and tags it with {cover} so he doesn’t forget.)

“Seriously, Whirl? We leave you to stand guard for a breem when we investigate a potential energon cache—”

The glitch is standing with his backstrut to Starscream initially, but when he turns to greet his irked companion, he’s holding—

“ Is that a dead mechanimal!? ” Starscream hisses with a disgusted sneer, leaning away from the gruesome sight. A hole in its chassis drips blood sluggishly, still smoking.

“Evening refuel,” Whirl agrees easily, which is absurd on so many levels, not the least of which that warframes definitely are not acclimated to more than one refuel per day, and that it’s a dead mechanimal. Seriously, Whirl might have just killed a random beastformer unwittingly. Or wittingly. Starscream can only stare at him, the not so distant melody of death raging unheeded.

“What is that ?” Sunstorm asks after an awkward moment, coming around the wall like a normal person.

“Evening refuel,” repeats the clearly malfunctioning copter. Apparently, not one of the three of them actually knew what in the pit it was Whirl had chased after when the twins weren’t looking.

Starscream whacks him, lightly, on the back of the helm and collapses to the rubbled covered  ground. He’s barely still conscious for the unrepentant cackling that ensues.

Chapter Text

When Starscream reboots, it is with the speed that comes from having been smacked, hard, every time he tried to sleep in previously. For a moment he struggles to place himself in time and space, but as his memory banks shuffle the fact that he’s lying awkwardly on his cockpit, tilted to the left on its curve, confuses him significantly less. The utter stupidity and bleakness of the situation still makes his processor hurt.

Sunstorm is still in recharge—he can feel the air to his right shimmer with heat on his flight sensors. He just grimaces at the cracked ground for a moment before he can muster the will to push himself up. Unmaker, growing up he hated the washracks—having to force himself to fluff out his plating for the freezing cold solvent to reach his protoform was anything but pleasant, he’d have to sidle up to his twin for warmth afterwards—but he feels dust and gunk everywhere and it’s miserable, so right now he might not actually mind.

He guesses that it had been kind of rude to completely conk out without arranging a watch rotation, but who gives a slag. Whirl didn’t exactly have a great track record when it came to guard duty and basic decency either.

It’s dark now, a few joors into the night cycle if his chronometer isn’t malfunctioning. The battle rages still but seems to have calmed with the setting of the sun—now Starscream can hear actual intervals between the detonations. Joy. Luna 1 and 2 hang lamplike in orbit, which is great because the city isn’t lit up like the simulations had suggested and it’s the only reason his optics are at all useful right now.

“You up, then?” the glitch chirps. It’s actually really disturbing, the way his field literally roils with twisted sentiments that don’t seem to reflect in his vocalizer at all . Starscream humms groggily—he is, unfortunately. “Cool. Sunstorm and I figured out how to get energon out of this after you passed the frag out.”

Whirl hands him part of the dead mechanimal so that a twisted gap that certainly hadn’t been there the last time he saw it stays upright. “Wow. Thanks. How do you do that?” Yes, he had known some energon came from mechanimals, but this is different. It’s in his servos . (Or maybe it isn't and he’s just being squeamish again. He had been the only one to purge after the Minders had them execute prisoners for practice, although Sunstorm had looked close. He still has weld marks on his back from the punishment vorns later; frankly, it’s a miracle none of the sensor nets in his wings were permanently damaged.)

“So what you’ve gotta do is put the opening at your intake and tip it back, right?” Starscream, still grimacing thoughtfully, nods his understanding. “Right, and then you’ve got to tilt it back and forth so all the fuel flows through the fuel lines.” It seems kind of barbaric—literally, like something those two wheelers or beastformers who lived in herds in the wilds would do—but he also knows that it’s war, and no one could afford to be picky. So Starscream does just that.

The energon that he swallows- ugh, it’s sweet , and kind of thick too in an unpleasant way. It must show on his face, because the copter laughs—harsh and unpretty and raucous, the best kind. He drains the carcass as best he can manage. At least it’s not warm with recent death now. “That’s the spirit, Screamer,” he coos saccharinely. Starscream, tired as he is, can only find it vaguely funny. He snorts. Briefly, the chaotic field that thrashes against his own in harsh tides is shot through with satisfaction. It’s. . . a nice change.

Whirl shifts from the debris he’d been using as a seat and onto his side, not batting on optic at sleeping on the ground. The survivor type, Starscream supposes. “Not gonna let me get picked off in the dark if I leave you to stand guard, huh?” the copter asks him. Starscream doubts his answer would have much of an effect on how much longer he could avoid recharge, though.

The jet tilts his helm like he’s considering it. “Well, whatever could kill you could kill Sunstorm. I suppose I’ll have to protect you too.” Whirl snickers, flashing him a tired grin, and lets his optics offline and shutter.

It’s eerie, to be the only one awake at this joor when they could very well be slaughtered by spies at any moment. The overhanging roof created by the collapsed wall is the best cover they could find, but it’s no bunker.

Some breems after initiating his recharge, Whirl’s field changes. The copter is still and silent, the only way a Seeker subimago is allowed, but his field is broiling with dread and fear. Starscream didn't know it could get worse than his baseline of "would probably snap your servo off and chew on it for fun if he thought he could get away with it." Thirteen, he knows better than to wake someone up from a bad flux. If someone disturbed his precious recharge every time his processor was tormenting him, he would go into stasis lock before too long. But Starscream shifts unobtrusively towards the poor thing despite how normal bad fluxes are, reaching out with his own field and offering a rarely practiced {comfort;protect;soothe}. It's the best he can do.

Chapter Text

Sunstorm reboots before Whirl. Starscream has to nudge him first and almost loses a ped for his trouble. “Next time I’ll just throw rocks until you’re up,” he grumbles. There’s an awkward moment where they all feel like they should be cleaning up camp, even though camp doesn’t really exist.

Starscream feels poorly rested, but honestly he spends most of his life halfway to stasis lock anyways so it doesn’t bother him too much. He picks up the data pads he miraculously never lost in the confusion of the last few cycles. Whirl’s helm swivels to stare at them when they clink together, glass against metal.

“Have you had those the whole time?”

. . .

“Uh. Yes?” Okay, so the copter may have lost his processor entirely. Great prospects for their future. Starscream hopes he isn’t too attached to the mech to dump him if they need to. “They’ve got Decepticon intel. They’re a bribe for the Autobots to accept us. I’ve been carrying them the whole time?” Well, he hadn’t exactly been paying too much attention to their existence, but he’s been carrying them for a few orns at this point. They are pretty small, servo sized, so he guesses it’s possible that the other just missed them. And he and Sunstorm never filled him in on the whole scheme, the mech just didn’t seem interested.

Whirl looks contemplative. “Oh. Why?”

Didn't Starscream just-? Yes, he did. Sunstorm facepalms in his periphery. The jet just squints at him. Did he not reboot right? How do you even fix that? “I just said why I’m carrying them,” he says slowly.

Whirl shakes his head, “No, why aren’t they in your subspace? Aren’t they safer in there?”

Well, he’s right about that. If Starscream could put them in his subspace, he would have immediately. But he’s confused for a whole different reason now. He thought it was standard regulation for Seeker crèches to lock their nymphs and subimagos’ subspaces. When the war does end, whatever regiment, business, or individual that owns him will decide what access Starscream has to his. Why would Whirl think his was open?

“Is your subspace unlocked?” Sunstorm questions, mildly incredulous. There’s always the chance that Whirl’s Minders were lax about it—because Sunstorm and his definitely Did Not Give A Slag about scuffed paint or refuel time silence like they were supposed to even if they were otherwise hardafts—but the glance Sunstorm sends his way suggests he doesn’t think it’s likely either. (Once, when they were really early subimago and none of the Minders even bothered to stop them from using nicknames yet, Afterblades had sat them down, unlocked all their subspaces, and taught them how that part of their frames worked as part of a practical lesson. The twins went through the motions of putting a candy in their left arms, taking it back out, and then chomping down. Back when they still got candies, sometimes. If Starscream had to pick a Minder to have survived Slipstream and Dreadwing, it would be him. And then the much older flier had locked and rechecked their subspaces back up.)

“Yeah, dude, you guys never figured out how to pick your subspace lock?” Excuse him? Was that a thing you could do!? “C’mere, it’s easier to do this for someone else. Brainstorm and me figured this slag out vorns ago.” The copter gestures for him to come over, settling back down on the ground. “I’ll do you and then Stormy here.”

His twin grimaces. There were so many ‘Storms’ in their crèche it wasn’t even funny. “Brainstorm and I,” he corrects thoughtlessly, cautiously settling down in front of the maybe-losing-it Whirl. “How is this done? I believe our Minders had tools for this.” Though it has been vorns.

Turning Starscream around (and carefully ducking away from the jet’s purple and silver wings,) Whirl  grins, all feral and smug, and purrs, “Well, the thing is, Brainy and me are just smarter than any fragging old Enforcer.”

Starscream—his vents shutter, accompanied by a full frame cringe. That’s—you can’t say that. Irrationally, his optics dart around, expecting to see a Minder with a basement key and a dangerous scowl. But of course there isn’t. Their Minders are dead, and he’s not sure what happened to Whirl’s, but he doubts they’re in hot pursuit somehow. “Try not to say things like that when we get to the Autobots?” the jet squeaks. You can think that all you want, but the klik you vocalize it? Well, it gets ugly. Enough that Starscream’s processor has made itself protocols to stamp out that particular vein of instinctive stubbornness before it can hurt him anymore, broad enough that even a statement from somebody else can apparently trigger them. He has to forcefully quiet the chorus of {obey;behave;apologize} that threatens to reduce him to a dissociating mess. Sunstorm probably has nothing close to these homemade protocols, Starscream’s always been useful as a bad example and his twin is a pleaser at spark anyways, but even he looks uncomfortable. “Since we don’t want anything. . . unfortunate to happen to us.” It was nice to be away from Enforcers for a while, but they all know it won’t last. At least, he and Sunstorm know it wouldn’t last; who knows what’s going on in Whirl’s processor.

He feels the movement of the copter’s shrug in the air against his flight sensors. “Promise I won’t drag you down with me,” he says dryly, instead of assuring them, ‘No, I do not in any way plan to antagonize whatever stand ins for Minders we’re saddled with until this stupid revolt is behind our whole planet and our treatment compared to the other surviving Seekers is entirely dependant on how well we behave until then.’ Feeling surprisingly deft claws pry open an access port under the edge of his helm, Starscream catches a meaningful look from his brother.

::we will have to reel him in::

::yes:: Starscream agrees, sounding more fierce in his own helm than was received on the other end. Somehow this imbecile has endeared himself to Starscream of all mechs—and now he’s speaking as though he’s already a lost cause. But they will make it through this, as long as there’s still a planet to call home on the other side. They will.

Sunstorm picks at the ground awkwardly for a moment. Whirl is humming cheerfully, and it’s a sign of how fast he’s become attached that it doesn’t really clash with his angry, turbulent field, though he has a. . . hunch of sorts, about the cause of that particular idiosyncrasy. For his part, Starscream is trying very hard not to flinch away from the sharp digit tips fiddling with part of what he’s pretty sure is his processor casing. Objectively something he should not have agreed to? Yes. But pit, his processor already fires wrong. If Whirl manages to break it further, at least he was trying to be helpful.

“So,” Sunstorm blurts, “who’s Brainstorm?”

Chapter Text

Hmm. Bad question. Brainstorm is apparently a subimago who teeters on the edge of Enforcer and Seeker, which is not something the twins knew was possible. He’s also apparently wickedly smart, which Whirl already said but apparently bears repeating. Starscream has a suspicion that’s because it’s the main feature of his personality, being a smartaft, but the glitch clearly adores the other so he’ll be nice. For now.

Sunstorm listens wide eyed as Whirl describes his friend’s stupid rebellious antics, apparently only some of which he partook in because he was usually ‘indisposed’, which the copter will not elaborate on.

“Oh, are you sure you weren’t just too afraid ?” Starscream purrs sweetly. It’s a talent of his, to make people want to punch him in the faceplates just by talking. Thankfully, Whirl settles for punching him lightly on the arm.

“I’m not scared of slag,” he retorts. “What, don’t tell me you’re some kind of bravespark? I bet you rolled right over for your bastards. Bet you said ‘how high’ when they told you to jump.”

Starscream’s thoughts flutter around memory files of { darkness ; stillness ; bad ; wrong }, shuddering softly. “Yeah, well, maybe I just have a sense of self preservation,” the purple Seeker hisses weakly. Whirl stares at him for a second longer than is comfortable but then shrugs and looks away, eyes on the sky. Probably to make sure they aren’t air striked mid conversation, which is surprisingly responsible of him, considering how little he seems to care about his own wellbeing.

The thing is, Whirl is partially wrong. Starscream used to be the most obnoxious, bold, obstinate Seeker in the crèche. It’s—it’s better, that he isn’t anymore. Life got so much easier when he just, just learned to behave. The last couple vorns, he’s had the impulse to be rowdy and glitchy and unhelpful but it dies fast enough. He hated the Minders, Unmaker he did , but frankly they were probably acting in his best interest as much as their own. If he had tried to traipse into his function like that he might as well have been asking for pincers. Sunstorm, ever observant and miraculously understanding, brushes their wings together in a practiced facsimile of embrace. One they could always get away with.

::thank you::

::of course::

The companions continue to pick their way over the rubble of the war torn city, vents acclimating to the churned up dust clouds and acrid smoke. Starscream makes the mistake of asking where Brainstorm even is—Whirl gets quiet and seems speechless, which is damn impressive and also probably really bad. Sunstorm frowns at him and changes the subject swiftly, and he feels a little bad, brushing his field against the others in apology. Burnt orange evening sunlight filters through scarred and twisted scaffolding above them, the charming  palette that folds over his twin’s metal in major. If he offlines his audials, which would be suicidal, he might even be able to pretend there isn’t a horrific, bloody war on all sides. He takes out the datapads to inspect not because he’s particularly worried about them but for the sheer novelty of using his subspace freely.

When the little illusion shatters, it’s almost too fast to follow.

Chapter Text

A blur of blue descends on him from a crumbling ledge of scaffolding like a vengeful wraith. Starscream barely has time to get his arms between his neck and his attacker’s arm blades, data pads clattering. His wings slam hard into the ground—something snaps painfully in a place that feels integral to flight. Only a crisp white Autobot marker on xer chassis crushes the instinct to ram a  knee spike into xer abdomen and see what happens from there.

“Don’t,” he pleads sharply, as much to his companion as this new mech. ::fine fine fine fine im fine:: he assures his brother privately, feeling the licks of infernal heat on his plating. An anger and fear response both, probably, Sunstorm wouldn’t risk roasting him. From his left, where Whirl had been travelling, he hears a minor transformation sequence—a blaster probably. No. This can’t turn bloody, it can’t , if it does they’re slagged. Right, priorities, order of operations. “We aren’t- aren’t hostile— Whirl put that blaster away I swear to the Unmaker do I look hurt to you!? ” Well the wickedly curved blades are cutting his arm plating but it’s deep enough only to hurt and not draw blood, so he’s fine.

The startlingly blue eyed mech scowls. “Not hostile but you have to order your pal not to shoot me? I’d like to know why three Seekers have wandered so far from the other Decepticons.”

Oh, damn every hareproccessored Warframe who threw themself into this Unmaker-awful revolt and pulled the rest of them down too. “We’re not Decepticons,” Starscream insists meekly.

Unfortunately, the copter snaps, “They’re defecting,” at the same time. Please, please shut up, Unmaker .

The Autobot’s weapons dig in a little more, making it a struggle not to screw his optics shut, because scrap that’s really starting to sting. Not that he isn’t familiar with pushing past pain, but still . “Oh?” xe growls. “Which is it?”

“I- Um, we-” Starscream stammers, “Uh, our crèche- no, um, right, the datapads-”

“I can explain, Starscream,” Sunstorm says in his I’m Giving Someone The Look voice, which he doubts is directed at him because if anyone’s actually earned it it’s Whirl—whose field promises death as it always does but the Autobot has no way of knowing, oh Maker spare them. “I don’t think it’s fair to say we were Decepticons, rather two mechs we were situated with pledged our entire party. Uh, Whirl was never actually involved with any of the. . . revolutionary sort, as far as we can tell.” His twin’s voice never loses its acquiescent respect, something Starscream thinks is half learned and half inborn. “The datapads you knocked out of Starscream’s servos are stolen intelligence that we meant to bring to the Autobots; that’s why we’ve crossed into your territory. We never meant to- Oh for the sake of all that is holy put away your blaster Whirl we are talking. ” There’s a pause before his audials register slow transformation, the click of plates sliding back together. Okay. Yes. This is fine. Blood starts to sluggishly dribble from his wounds, joy. This is fine. Starscream wants to look back at how they’re handling it but his gaze is firmly on the mech above him. Xer field is pulled in sharply, so there’s no read there. Tentatively, he pushes his outwards—this is a situation where the Autobot really should know he’s appropriately cowed and not looking to lash out and something needs to make up for Whirl’s besides. There is no deception in its pulses of { compliance ; deference ; anxiety }, for better or worse. Hopefully for better.

Xe- Oh, the Autobot slowly removes xer left blade and folds it back, which is nice through watching it subspace the pads carefully up to when it transforms into a blaster, making Whirl fire up his and oh Unmaker why.

::make him stop:: he comms desperately to Sunstorm. The Autobot won’t just shoot him right? Right?

It does seem like shooting a subimago isn’t on the agenda today, because xe firmly announce, “Here’s how this is going to play out, you two. My blaster is going to stay over your little purple friend’s spark casing. Copter, you’re going to transform your servo back. Orange, you’re going to just stay there. None of you will make any sudden moves or open any subspace panels. My partner is going to be here within half a joor, and then we’re taking all of you back to base. We can all worry about what the officers make of you there. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Sunstorm replies warily. Whirl only hisses, because Starscream is being reminded by the universe that he’s a glitch as punishment for getting attached or something. The Autobot’s response is to nudge his arms away with xer warm and humming blaster arm and press it against his chassis, not quite hot enough to burn. On a hair trigger, then. Progressively losing his scrap, Starscream moves with the action, even if it hurts like the Pit because xe never bothered to take away xer blade first. He’s having trouble grounding himself and the open air is starting to look like crèches walls, but it's fine, he’s fine , if he sees the ghost of an impassive blue visor flicker around xer uncovered optics that’s his slagging business and he’s sane not broken -

Once again, the copter’s reluctant transformation breaks the stiff silence. Haha, it’s not like Starscream was expecting them to be- to be welcomed , Unmaker no, he’s not that much of an idiot but this is—ugh, this is really bad. At least the Autobot chose to jump him and not Sunstorm or Whirl because in the first case his reaction time is faster (plus the wing injury has started making itself known with a vengeance, not something his brother should ever be subjected to if Starscream gets a say in it, which, hah, yeah right) and in the second Whirl definitely would have started a fight (plus he has thin rotor blades that would snap in a tussle and Starscream wouldn’t wish that on— well, not nobody but very few mechs at the very least).

‘Within half a joor’ is, well, anywhere from a few breems to the full time, so Starscream resigns himself to laying on his definitely broken wing and slowly bleeding out with an online blaster against his chassis, and wow maybe there was some truth to the whole “the Maker hates all of you Warframe sinners” scrap Aerotrack was on because at this point Primus just hating them specifically makes the most sense.

::hey: Starscream comms, definitely calmly because he’s fine he’s coping , :hey sunstorm hey do you want to hear a joke::

::literally what is wrong with you::

Chapter Text

This situation might actually have been more awkward than anything else if his wing wasn’t aching like the Pit the whole three eighths of the joor it takes for Arcee’s partner to get to them all, also he never actually ended up telling any jokes. Oh, Arcee, that’s apparently the mech’s name; Whirl clearly couldn’t stand the strained silence and would pipe up with a question every couple breems—she only deigned to answer two, which is how you know her designation and current function (but not Function), as one of the Autobot’s numerous scouts. Clearly she’s stealthy enough, she got the drop on three Seekers after all. Well, not fully trained Warframes by any means, but for presumably a Civilian frame (or maybe Enforcer, if the blades are integrated? Except she doesn’t have a visor,) that’s impressive enough. Not that Civilians should ever be forced to get good at combat, Unmaker, that’s not what they’re for , this is such a mess. Well, Starscream’s not sure he feels bad for her specifically because. You know. She has her blaster trained on his spark and she did break his wing (fully? Partially? Maybe just bent badly?) but still. He thinks that as he acclimated to it, Whil’s field has gradually started to make a little more sense, which is why he could pick out the faint reverberations of {mutiny;frustration;worry} that he’s sure the Autobot wasn’t aware of.

The partner in question is another Civilian (presumably) scout, a pleasant blend of teal and white that might be enviable if Starscream had ever been allowed to care about those sorts of things and also if it wasn’t scuffed to the Pit and back—which is sorta weird because their crèche was always told that Civilians took more pride in their appearances because the Maker actually made them look nice, but he guesses war is war for any caste.

“These the ones, Arcee?” he asks gruffly, twin blasters trained on Whirl and Sunstorm. Which makes him want to throw the mech off him and go slagging feral, but also literally what kind of question is that? ‘These the ones.’ Nah, your partner just abandoned the potential intel and/or spies and grabbed a new set of subimagos.

Apparently feeling similarly, Whirl’s field flickers with sharp {disgust} for the other teal mech, and Arcee squints at her fellow Autobot. “Uh, yeah. Tailgate, you grab the helicopter and I take this one. Orange seems reasonable enough and invested in their wellbeing besides, so we can probably trust him to just walk if you get cuffs on him.” She turns her piercing optics on his twin. “Right?”

“Yes,” Sunstorm agrees reluctantly, arms up in a ‘I surrendered don’t hurt me’ gesture. The idea of his polite, well meaning brother subjected to restraints is. . . not ideal, but that’s not a helpful sentiment so Starscream keeps his vocalizer firmly off. No use protesting basic tactical sense, it won’t get them anywhere. He’s lucky Sunstorm isn’t going to be dragged around anyways.

It’s a relief when the newly identified Tailgate drops the blasters and transformers his servos back—(wait, does it hurt to have weapons systems installed if you’re a Civilian?)—even though it’s literally so he can retrieve a pair of stasis field cuffs. He knows intellectually to be wary of them, but that damned curiosity lurking in the dark crevices of his processor that he never fully managed to snuff kind of wonders what they feel like.

Under the seemingly impassive inspection of the first Autobot, the cuffs snap on with a foreboding click. Hmm, apparently they feel not great , which he’d guessed of course. A cool, tingling numbness spreads up his arms and through his servos, strut deep. Starscream involuntarily produces some vague distressed whirring from his vocalizer that’s mostly masked by his slightly overtaxed vents—it’s the stress, he’s never been able to handle it, no matter how much Aerotrack insisted ridiculing and punishing him in equally heavy measure would ‘fix that little error right up.’ Hmm, in retrospect he’s pretty sure that exacerbated the problem actually, even if at the time he had accepted it in a bizarre swirl of miserable self hatred and a lackluster resolution to do better. Somehow.

( Hah. Better. Starscream never gets better all the way no matter how much he pushes himself no matter how Aerotrack or Afterblades or Slipstream or Sunstorm try no matter how long he’s forced into- into-)

Hmm, right, okay, focusing, yes. Bad time for his useless ( moronicstupidbroken ) processor to zone out. The newest addition to this glum little party is hauling him up, and he has a new blaster to chassis, lovely . Unmaker, this day sucks. Whirl shudders with rage and also maybe fear while he’s cuffed, making the purple Seeker’s spark twinge uncomfortably. If his regular comms were unlocked, he’d try to console him, tell him that it really is easier if he just goes along with the scrap non Warframes like to throw at them. But he can’t, and he hates it.

Under the stiff, uncomfortable hush, they and their—what, captors ? Temporary Minders?—begin the, with their luck, arduous march to whatever the Pit constitutes a base in these dire straits.

Chapter Text

Look, it’s not like Starscream wants to spend any longer than he has to out in the open. He wants to make it to the Autobot base probably about as much as the actual Autobots do. But that doesn’t make the lack of rest any less fragging miserable. They’ve been walking through the night cycle, not having stopped when Sol set, which is an. . . interesting tactical decision. Not that Starscream is exactly looking to insult them to their faceplates— Unmaker , he’s so deeply glad he’s (mostly) moved past that self destructive impulse—but the main benefit of moving a stealthy or reconnoitring party nocturnally is the cover provided by the low light; in this case that benefit is fairly covered by the thick smoke and ruins and outweighed by the increased risk of planned ambushes. He’s highly uncomfortable with the way that puts his twin and friend in danger—but no, Starscream knows what’s expected of him. Behave well, and they’ll be treated well. Behave poorly, and well, one can guess.

Yeah, he knows something is bound to snap or buckle soon—by the time his knees start to hurt more than his broken wing he’s pretty damn aware, thanks. But the longer he holds out, the less angry Arcee and Tailgate will be when they have to do something about it—probably, he doesn’t know them so it’s a flip of a coin really; he’s just pretty sure that, logically, they’d be upset if he bothered them while the pain was still bearable. Besides, his twin and Whirl aren’t exactly griping so it’d be selfish of him to risk making the Autobots angry.

In the low visibility, Cybertron’s ruins are downright eerie. The increasingly distant ringing of explosive and warfare, of fighting and dying, creeps to their audials now like ghosts. His plating prickles with the drop in temperature and he itches to fire up his flight engines—a frame built for high speeds in the air. . . struggles to maintaining comfortable temperature, due to intentional heatsinks meant to keep it, well, not overheating into a crash (of either the systems or physical kind.) A problem that Sunstorm has never had, but of course Starscream’s nothing special.

Starscream is going to go out on a limb here and hazard that Tailgate has scrap low light vision, the way he keeps half stumbling and jerking the jet's arm with him. Arcee certainly isn’t having this problem. If Whirl thought the Autobot might have been incompetent earlier, he’s clearly sure now, the way he’s glaring with contempt. Or maybe that’s because of the looming threat of a blaster bolt through Starscream’s spark? He’s less worried about it at this point than he is about his left knee. The gears and gyros have started to shift and scrape in a way that definitely doesn’t feel right. If Starscream is the one to bring down His Graceless Stumbling he might actually laugh, or maybe cry. It’s been a long fragging quintun.

From what he can gather of the ruined and crumbling architecture and the increasingly winding streets, they’ve left behind the really compact city. The loosely packed buildings, he knows vaguely, are for moderately important, useful mechs—high class Civilian and Enforcer caste types. Not somewhere anyone in the crèche was likely to end up, so they’d never been taught much about it. Is this where the base is? Where do they even find the space in these unattached buildings? How could it be concealed?

The blue Autobot guides them to a hole in the ground that descends into darkness— ah. That’s how. Whirl’s angry field shrinks and devolves into disconcerting static, Sunstorm’s helm snaps to face his with wide yellow optics. Starscream’s tanks churn in dread. He has to go down there. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice, he’ll be better off for it but he doesn’t fragging want to please not again.

— — — —

It’s hard to think. His chronometer tells him they’ve been under for only two joors; Starscream’s processor feels like it’s been down here forever, like he’ll never leave again, forever lost in these dank tunnels. His chemoreceptors read old oil and rust in a sickly blend. Sunstorm coos to him in a steady stream over their commline, babbling about the pros and cons of the Delta Maneuver or something. It’s hard to pay attention, but he appreciates it immensely.

He keeps stealing glances at Whirl, because the copter is obviously even less okay with this than he is, and worse, neither Starscream nor Sunstorm has any way of reaching out, of offering comfort. His movements are stiff and dronelike, his mouth set in a blank line and optics unfocused. His previously bristling with anger posture is flat and wrong, and his spark field is just a faint buzz of dull static.

Starscream, he knows why. His field learned to do that when he was much younger—it hurts and it decreases spatial awareness but that’s the point. His own field is small and buzzing too, not to the same extent because the idea of being even more helpless makes him want to purge, but he pulls it anxiously away from thick, dense walls all around. He admittedly didn’t know this particular defense mechanism could cause long term damage like with Whirl’s, but he's immensely glad he broke himself out of his worst behaviors before it happened to him. 

Well. He might be doing it right now, but he has to. This is not punishment for any particular failing and it won’t be forever.

This is just getting where they need to be. It’s not forever. It’s just walking. There’s other mechs here. He’s not alone in the dark.

. . .

Starscream wants to hold his brother’s servo.

Chapter Text

It takes another joor to reach the exit of the system of tunnels. At some point the moons set again, as the aboveground world is bathed in washed out noon light. It must be the ash in the upper atmosphere or something.

Even Sunstorm’s obviously more relieved than can be put into words, joints audibly relaxing and golden wings unflattening from his back. Whirl twitches once and then twice, shaking his helm as if trying to dislodge some physical attack or malady. His rotary blades slow to a shaky stop, which makes Starscream realise they’d been tilting and teetering the whole time. Admittedly, he feels a little bad about not noticing, but of course he had his own, ah, difficulties.

As for himself, the purple jet lets his field flood outward in a tide of { relief }. The Autobot leading him—Tailgate—visibly does a double take. Why the pit is he a scout? Even mildly out of it, Starscream can tell he’s just objectively unobservant. This mech is going to die if he doesn’t wiggle his way into an assignment change. His partner asks with a sort of half-afted apathetic concern, “Are all three of you just really claustrophobic or something?”

Sunstorm opens his intake to answer her—Unmaker knows Starscream isn’t up to the task the way his helm is still pounding and his whole frame aches—but Whirl beats him to it with a fiery, sparkfelt, “Frag you.”

Oh Unmaker. Sunstorm produces an alarmed, anxious squeak. On some level, Starscream expected it. He knows Whirl fairly well—like, yeah, they met like a quintun ago, but he has a very hard to miss disposition—except he still cringes. He really doesn’t want to see what happens when Arcee gets completely fed up with him, and it might be imminent.

(Is this how Sunstorm used to feel all the time? Probably. Thirteen, he is going to give his brother half his rations for the next vorn, this is awful. )

Arcee looks- only bemused. Oh thank Primus. She raised an optical ridge, peering down at the minutely shaking and scowling copter. “That bad, huh? Don’t worry, the rest of the stretch is up here.”

The twins droop in relief simultaneously, shooting mirrored meaningful glances. As they suspected, Whirl isn’t planning to curtail his poor behavior. They’re lucky right now, but not every mech is going to be as lax as Arcee apparently is.

“You’ve got some bearings on you, huh?” Tailgate marvels, sounding similarly amused. “Not every mech is brave enough to talk back to someone with a blaster trained on him.”

“Or stupid enough,” Starscream mutters sullenly under his vents. Whirl is going to get himself hurt and it burns, how he doesn’t know how to stop it. If Minders couldn’t—and he knows how thoroughly they must have tried—what chance does Starscream have? ( Stupid arrogant Seeker stop getting above yourself you know where you belong what you are. ) He can’t exactly take anything from their usual repertoire, and even if he could he doesn’t think he would want to, even be able to. (The thought of hurting Whirl, seriously hurting the mech, is like the thought of hurting Sunstorm, sickening and sour in his throat.)

Taking the chance to observe his new surroundings, he marvels at the mostly untoppled buildings of this new city. It looks to his unfamiliar optic like Iacon—their crèche was in Praxus. So they really are a long way from home. The rubble content is significantly lower—the streets and buildings are abandoned, seemingly, and smoke and haze curls around everything in sight, but there’s less of a feeling of dodging strife on all sides. A nice change, maybe, if he could enjoy it without an imminent threat to the integrity of his spark chamber. The flatter terrain is a nice change for his whining knee joint, at the very least.

“Not too far now,” Arcee informs them after a few breems of walking. What really fragging sucks is that if they were allowed to just take off and fly there this whole miserable portion of the ordeal would already be over—but that’s not a proper train of thought, of course. Fliers accommodate grounders. Oh, also, what the frag is Arcee’s alt mode? He can see three wheels—two of them half the size of the other. She either has a fourth tucked away or she’s a Biwheeler. Has the war reached even the Wilds now? The thought is nauseating. Huh, this is the first time he’s ever interacted with a Civilian either way, which is a realization that kind of slaps him in the faceplates because that’s, that’s not right.

Starscream is a Warframe. His Function is protection. Civilians should be the recipients of that protection. That’s how this works. And the jet isn’t old enough, trained enough to actually do that yet. Which means he shouldn’t even be seeing them. It makes his tanks squeeze uncomfortably. It’s been hitting him, in little bursts, how fragged this whole situation is.

Because his first time interacting with a Civilian should have been when one was looking into acquiring him, or if a regiment wanted him first and he was serving far away from Civilians and protecting them from a distance, potentially never at all. It shouldn’t have been with a maybe-barbarian tackling him to the ground and calling her Civilian partner farther into a warzone. If Civilians are this embroiled in conflict, it means Warframes in general have really messed up.

And no good thing has ever happened to a Warframe who messed up. So, basically, they’re screwed.

::this is so fragged:: he comms to his brother. ::this is wrong so wrong so fragged i want to be back at the crèche why is this happening::

Wow, that reads as hysterical. Is he being hysterical right now? His field is- well it’s not great but it pulled in all on its own so it’s not too noticeable.

::we’ll get through it i promise i love you it’s okay::

Sunstorm can always make him feel better. Logically there’s no way for the other to back up the promises, but his spark could not care less as its fluctuation slows and evens out. He wishes he were better at returning the favor—it’s not easy for Starscream to hide when he’s upset or, or freaked out or something. The orange twin manages to do so with frightening ease.

He takes a vent, a second, and another. The floaty, out of frame feeling he gets sometimes starts to disperse. The jet is at least more aware of where he’s going. Being led by the white and teal grounder, he’s lucky he didn’t trip during that little. . . episode. His processor is finally calming down from the anxious little self imposed circles it was flying in, so of course, of course that’s when his knee gives out.

Chapter Text

Starscream can’t help but shriek in surprise when he goes down—not really from the pain, because Unmaker knows that at this point an injury needs to be fragging debilitating to elicit an involuntary vocal response from him—but because it completely caught him off guard.

It shouldn’t have. He knew he was injured. He just, well, usually he could tell when something was about to break—trial and error from accidents and punishments over the vorns. He slips through the Autobot’s grip—yeah, thanks a lot, pal—and completely wipes out on the ground.

Autobots be damned, apparently, Sunstorm is at his side in an instant. “What’s damaged?” he demands. Arcee manages to keep her hold on Whirl, but he tugs and snarls viscously, like something feral. 

“Gyro, left knee,” he grits out. “Internal.” That and the wing, but if they aren’t flying it isn’t a priority.

The moron manages to get over his shock or something, but evidently not his inexperience, and he drops next to him across from his brother—effectively cancelling out his blessedly calming presence. “What the frag?” he asks, servos hovering awkwardly. Arcee brings herself and the copter over to them too, apparently getting so frustrated with Whirl that she lifts him by some firm kibble on the back of his chassis so he dangled, and he protests it by kicking at nothing. “How the pit did you manage to hurt yourself?”

“Sorry,” he squeaks, because he just fragged up the ‘don’t upset the Autobots’ plan after verbally and mentally admonishing Whirl for just that. (He’d feel worse if the other  wasn’t still misbehaving.) “Sorry, it’s, ah, it’s wear and tear—from ground travel. I, sorry.”

“Did you not notice?” Sunstorm demands, field frantic with { worry }. He cringes guiltily, all the answer his brother needs. “ Starscream .”

“I, I didn’t want to—well, I didn’t think it was going to break ,” he defends weakly and reaches for the plating above the damage, turning from his front to his side for better access. “L-look, hey, maybe I can fix it–”

“No,” Arcee says firmly. “None of us are healers—or, what, medics, I think you call them.” Absently, he notes that he was right about her being from the wilds—odd but not, right now at least, important. Tailgate stops his servo with a solid, but not painful, grip on his cuffs, and he shrinks away anyways because he’s a useless coward.

“You glitch ,” Whirl snarls, still thrashing despite his captor’s very present and presently humming blaster . “I’ll fragging kill you if you make him walk on a broken part, what’s wrong with you–”

“He doesn’t have to walk,” Tailgate assures, and his spark field brushes out with a foreign promise of { assurance ; concern }. “I can carry him, ‘Cee.” Starscream holds stock still while he’s scooped up, and Sunstorm stands anxiously with him.

It– Frag, it hurts. Moron probably doesn't mean it to, but he’s also holding him in a way that stresses his right wing, the broken one. Still–

“Don’t worry, buddy, we aren’t far now,” Tailgate assures, completely different from how he had been gruff and then kind of jovial. Starscream, overwhelmed and hurting, tucks his faceplates into the Civilian’s chassis and tries not to cry. It would be okay if it was just the pain—Unmaker knows he could handle that! He could, if he was back home in the crèche, where things might be awful but he knew he would survive them. But he’s hurt and in danger and captured (sort of?) and it’s hard , trying not to cry. “Oh, Primus, you’re light. How old are you even. . .?”

Dutiful as ever, Sunstorm forcefully flattens his distressed golden wings and meekly replies, “Starscream and I are spark twins—we’re both twenty-six.”

The Autobots both freeze—even Arcee, who is clearly competent and hardened by what Starscream can only imagine is a harrowing life doing pit knows what in the uncharted, dangerous wilderness, loses her grip on Whirl, who drops to the ground venting heavily and scrambles to Sunstorm’s side. Luckily, the moron (and he should really stop thinking that, why did he think that was okay, he’s just a stupid Warframe not allowed to think like that– ) has him less held and more cradled. For a moment, Starscream can only hear the woosh of air in and out of their frames and distant warfare. Their captors’ fields are frozen.

Then, the two wheeler whispers just loud enough to make out, “You’re bitlets .”

Chapter Text

“Okay, what the frag is a bitlet?” Whirl demands immediately. “And what does that have to do with vorns?”

The moron Civilian stares down at Starscream in mounting horror but doesn’t answer. He has to resist the nagging urge to squirm in the arms holding him, optics darting anxiously around the flat clearing the abandoned settlement—they’ve been standing still out in the open too long. Much too long. Should he say something? He’s already probably gotten them into trouble, going and getting himself broken like that, but he’d rather be in more trouble then dead.

“I thought you were minijets,” Arcee says, louder. “I thought you were just small.” She looks like she wants to bolt, maybe fold into her odd alt mode and drive off. Her field begins to flicker with– {guilt}? That’s guilt, and {horror;confusion;panic} too, but it doesn’t make sense.

“Does bitlet mean subimago?” Sunstorm posits slowly. His wings shift uncertainly, and he can see the way his cuffed wrists tug against each other in an effort to meet respectfully behind his back. “We’re almost imago though.”

“Subimago– Subimago means young? Not matured?” It’s the Civilian, now. “Arcee, we should have this conversation somewhere safe—we can make it back to base soon. Frag, the instars need medical attention, they’ve been out here alone for who knows how long—oh Primus, you two, are you accumulating damage too?”

“No,” Whirl snaps. “Get over your stupid scuples or fragging don’t, we’re gonna get shot.”

Starscream cringes, preparing to cling to the Autobot’s chassis when he inevitably slaps Whirl for his nonstop insolence, but it never happens. How? The copter’s luck has to run out eventually, right? He guesses just. . . not now. The Autobots jolt into motion, at least; Starscream feels far away as he’s jostled by the clumsy, hasty gate of the Autobot, watching Arcee ineffectively try to usher Whirl and easily guide Sunstorm further along.

The grounders weren’t lying when they said they were close, at least. It’s barely a breem before they come upon a pair of blast doors concealed by a half collapsed overhanging wall. The architecture is familiar, at least; the Autobots seem to have claimed Warframe barracks. Good choice from the options they had, if they couldn’t do their own construction. He forcefully does not think about where the previous occupants are now.

Arcee and Tailgate glance at each other as they pause, the telltale signs of a private comm exchange, but at least they come to a conclusion fast. There’s a pad on the sturdy wall beside the entrance with numerals one through twelve that the two wheeler punches a string of code into, too fast for his processor to follow when he isn't really paying attention, and the blast doors shudder open with a painful squeal.

::unmaker:: Sunstorm comms, expression blankly appalled. ::who taught the civilians to do maintenance::

Starscream privately agrees—yeah, if Sunstorm is willing to be disrespectful he knows things are pretty slagged—but his systems are feeling too tired to respond as he’s brought into a dark hallway. His field flexes against thin but sturdy walls, almost comforting in their familiarity, and the pain in his wing and leg is finally teetering on the verge of ignorable.

It’s almost nice how the Civilian’s servos absently pet him in his hurry. He should be offended or embarrassed, probably, but it’s been so long since he’s been permitted contact with another to this degree that he can’t help but indulge a little in the weakness. The layout of the place is similar to the crèche, a little, and the Autobots said they were being taken to the medbay. Based on the location of the little one back home, they weren’t lying.

Unfortunately, they run into another mech before they make it.

Xe’s a cheerful red with sensor horns and visible tires, rounding a corner the same time they reach it and jumping back in surprise. “Tailgate? Arcee? Are those the defectors you commed Prowl about? This is the wrong way to the holding cells.”

Arcee’s field snaps in annoyance, making him cringe into himself on instinct, but her ire is obviously not directed at him; “Clearly,” she snaps, shouldering him out of the way while she prods Whirl along. “Ratchet knows I’m coming. Find something useful to do, Cliffjumper.”

The Civilian throws up his servos and backs into the corner to let them pass. “Sure, sure. I’ll find you when you’re not fragged off, I guess.” If Starscream is right, it’s at least just one more turn until they find—yes. The object of their search at last.

Arcee throws the door open with the servo that isn’t holding his twin’s shoulder firmly, the interior flooding the dim hall with unpleasantly harsh lights. “Lay him on the berth on the opposite wall,” calls yet another mech out of sight—presumably the medic. His voice is firm and sharp, but oddly not unkind. (It reminds Starscream weirdly of Afterblades when he was in a good mood.) “On his cockpit, not his wings. Get the other two off their peds, too, no more damage than they’ve already accumulated in my medbay!”

Predictably, because who wants to frag off a doctor, Tailgate hurries to comply, setting him down gently on a foil surface that he sinks into. The two wheeler ushers Whirl and Sunstorm onto a pair of dinged up stools, field under control now, firm and assuring as anything; his twin shoots him a tentative, strained smile. “There we go,” he murmurs softly, one servo squeezing his pauldron gently, “Ratchet will be with you in a moment. Everything is going to be okay.”

Unlikely, in his experience; he’ll believe it when he sees it. Starscream makes a vaguely affirmative noise anyways and tries very hard not to think about how much his frame aches—and how much he’s dreading being looked over.